


Records of The World

by frooit



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, History, M/M, One Shot, Twincest, a promise, musings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frooit/pseuds/frooit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What you don't know...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Records of The World

The world revolves around simple news, simple plans, simple minds, simple motivations, simple words, simple marketing, and one simple notion.

_What you don't know, can't hurt you._

And maybe it was Connor's motto ever since first hearing it, and first knowing, learning, realizing—following the inkling—that Murphy and him didn't have your normal brother-to-brother relationship. They've got the modified version. Something you do, in fact, wake up with, because it's under layers and hiding until it's there. _I might be in love with you._

When you say _simple_ , you mean point A, to point B. Straight line. No detours. No questions. You're not mentioning the "oh, by the way," or the, "but this could happen" side dishes. Your lips are sealed, your arms are open, and doesn't it look so simple, anyone could do it, even you.

The only thing about it is—when you're children? Who knows what the fuck you're thinking _exactly_. Exactly, it's Murphy sleeping next to Connor, so close his breath is Connor's breath, and his arms are tight around him. He has his own bed, you see, but Connor's feels warmer and softer and just right. And age perverts everything. Because then it's a kiss, a line crossed, and five years up from eight you're grinding hips under the covers and bumping faces because all you know is you need it.

Separation takes a toll. Takes a chunk out of you. It's only just a week, and you're eighteen, but feels like a year, and a day, and seven hours too long for you to realize, I _need_ this _person_ because it's _something_ else.

Connor didn't feel the need to tell anyone. It wasn't a guilt taking the form of weight on his shoulders, weighing down, hovering, 'til he explodes in a confessional and eats his brain raw wondering why God would do such a thing. But it _is_ guilt. And doesn't guilt just make everything ugly, and depraved, and wrong, and stones in your gut. It's not about knowing it's wrong, deep down. It's knowing everyone _else_ thinks it's wrong, deep down.

Murphy says _fuck it_ between the curls of grey from his cigarette, and Connor's got a new motto.

_I condemn none other than my self and mine, who gives consent. Aren't we one. Let's fuck, kill bad men, and fade in purgatory until Fate we were bred on decides us._


End file.
